Harmony Holiday - 4 n***as (Only?) / His Name is Slim lyrics

(1)His Name is Slim He isn't dead. He isn't a dead poet of rhythm. He shook the locals like a pa**ing train, coal-coal/now-now nameless then militant Like an underneath, like combed out math, to clone an oath, I do/I do, and he kept on living. Some say, forever. Forever and sunsmell/happily ever Osiris-ever—ever hear him laugh? Some say the swell of rain around an averted catastrophe/like fame in the knees and speechless, blue's pain, and None too provincial, how the nails of courage drill into the mercenary air. He's a leanless pimp, alive of it, and a pimp without a lean could become President, as the old saying stays. Oh let it not become clever or clutter or clique or oar or riddle or order, this borderless, borderline pchizo grip of His go getting. Let it work like a babbling clock in a movie scene, mending the risk with dash and fiction. He isn't dead. She's on blast/duty screaming Daddy into the mirror until it glows with her. When did n***a become our favorite word(k)/But be sure of it, that he's the sublime puzzle, the rough Cheer approaching us as spell. Why are you so dark, n***a, why you so dark and soldier near Her name is Sweet Thing (2) His Name is Malik He beats his wife and preaches about the revolution and an invisible mineral he calls consciousness to sold out auditoriums. Quotes Duke Ellington's A Drum Is a Woman in cliché smoke-laden dressing room conversations, all vertical and vertigo, with his boys after speeches. Love is a dangerous Necessity (again). Groupies peek in with crisp, eager eyes. He squeezes my hand a little tighter like a thigh afterhours. Take out the part where he Beats his wife. Add a magic/cactus cutting masks for light. He's a revolutionary. Can't you see. He's why I tell my story fast. He's why I'm your hero He's where beauty goes to keep. He's not just a rapper, he's just a robot. As a robot gets himself together, and he does it, and he gets the middle Where we have forgotten our feelings of love you will helphim, huh? Her name is Saffronia Her name is Saffronyella (3) His Name Is Leroy A clean black man in a numb Cadillac, driving down the rent. He doesn't believe in memory. He leans against auburn bricks like a slave or Elvis and Tells his story to pray for us in 4/4 to infinity. He takes the great black superlative and turns it into a toy soldier which he knocks off of a manmade Cliff in the suburbs, where it floats forever—on, calm like a balloon animal hugging the bulk of his infatuation so desperately/reckless, it's suave Good things are solid! Better things are out of this world! He believes that exile is the cure for exile. He's all soul-less style; he leaves his body Before you can kick him out. On the other side of the game he makes a commercial for the next black superlative and becomes Spike Lee, someone to Love and lead and blame for love, and leave. Race rant scene. Blank screen. Love scene. Love is an eager necessity. You call him a sellout, you steal His woman, you train his suntan pale. He smiles, finds a new woman with a hipper nose and all yellow/the vogue, then asks a proud, How you like me Now? Didn't I blow your mind this time, Didn't I? Nope, typical If you shoot an arrow and it goes real/high, hooray for you Her name is Peaches His Name in Lights He complained of a pleasure with no content. That lasted for three days. Then he disappeared. We smear his echo across our hope/no fear. I'm Dealing with fame as a phobia and a blood type. I'm dealing with the myth that I'm an angel. Barrel, roll out/Shango cut to soap commercial or Rickshaw shield, clearing, slow-motion celebrants—We did it! We did it! Reefer helps me focus. And our nerves are never ravens, never coyotes, and Weeping waterless tears—And from this moment, she is the soft master of every scene, the anarchy that silences each category, with her ensemble Time. Smiling like lace on a wing, saturated with truth and moon-flesh, singing doo-wop medleys and glowing like a cash crop. Was your father a Singer too? If he didn't beat you, did he at least join you? So subtle but savage, that joy in you/that joy in you is the least of it—the distribution of Emphasis across like events until the rebellion is as fast as life and candor is our brightest shield, delivered to the moment where imagination steals Memory and he disappears to become one of each. I'm dealing with fame as a phobia and a blood type. I'm dealing with the myth that I'm an angel The original union of church and state I found all the images here were bound to business I needed it altered So I spread my legs and drew them in like scissors (more than once) I cut at the nerve so the through just ruptured of nearer-to god-than-thee Sensation (don't stop there/at The body's gated jungle resort, but I told the man It was a nice exercise but it had nothing to do with my life Take me some place lush and opal, but now! The leisure aches like newborns-like Just after birth you begin to wonder if you'll ruin What you created like you've been (saved) Fix me, jesus, fix me Fix me, n***as, fix me (Almost whispering) (With spring in her heart) As a robot gets herselves together and we do this, and we get to the middle, where we have Remembered our feelings of love, you will tell me, huh?